Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE MIDNIGHT VIGIL BY THE SICK-BED OF A MOTHER, by SARA JANE CLARKE LIPPINCOTT


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE MIDNIGHT VIGIL BY THE SICK-BED OF A MOTHER, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: They say a tempest is abroad to-night
Last Line: "and say to her, "" arise!"
Alternate Author Name(s): Greenwood, Grace
Subject(s): Mothers; Sickness; Illness


BY THE SICK-BED OF A MOTHER.
THEY say a tempest is abroad to-night;
They tell me of its fearful sights and sounds, --
Of driving rains, the rush and roar of winds,
The plunge of torrents o'er the mountain side,
The burst of thunder, and the lurid track
Of the quick lightning, leaping down the skies!
But deeper midnight and a colder gloom
Enwrap my life, -- within my bosom reigns
A wilder, sterner strife, -- while bows my head,
Bared to the peltings of a mightier storm!
The hour is nigh at hand, -- the hour that oft
Darkened my childhood's dreams in nights of fear;
Whose icy thought had e'er strange power to chill
The bounding pulse of joy, since first my lips
Essayed to lisp the most beloved name.
Vainly my soul hath struggled; -- from her clasp
Life's earliest, dearest joy is torn away!
Her deepest, tenderest, thrice-blessed love,
A holy lamp within a sacred shrine,
Is dying out upon this midnight air!
O soul, so strong with hope and high resolve,
Brave and exultant once, but shrinking, faint,
Now, while the wine-press of a mortal grief
Thy steps are treading painfully and slow!
O heart that once unfolded into life,
Flower-like in gladness, lifting up toward heaven
A chalice for its sunshine and its dews, --
That drank in freshness with the morning hours,
And swayed to pleasant airs the livelong day,
Now, bruised and broken, bleed thyself away,
Earth cold beneath, and heaven all dark above!
This voice hath grown a stranger to mine ear;
Faltering and sad its tones that lately rung
Such merry changes, -- and the eyes that smiled,
And looked contentment from their deepest depths,
Grow wild, and darken with a great despair.
Silent I sit amid the waste of grief,
The desolation, the tempestuous gloom,
The deep convulsion of my inmost life;
Save when a prayer of sternest agony,
Like some strong bird, goes forth amid the strife,
Through storm, and darkness, and cold, heavy clouds,
Battling its way toward heaven, -- its weary way,
Where, 'mid the conflict soon o'ercome, it falls,
Dashed toward the earth by some relentless power.
But peace, my soul! -- He liveth yet, who looked
On woman's grief and "wept," -- e'en while his voice
Rebuked the worm, and called the wasting dead
In life and freshness forth into the day;
Who took the Jewish maiden by the hand,
And, with one word, gave back to mortal life
A spirit wandering in the deathless clime,
To lose the memory of her hour of heaven
In the sweet sadness of an earthly lot.
Once more my soul lifts up her bitter cry,
The fast outpouring of her grief and fear!
Once more falls at thy feet, and grasps thy robe,
And will not let thee go, Master of Life!
O, by the memory of her love, whose eyes
Looked tender adoration on Thee first,
Who warmed Thee at her bosom when the airs
Of the first morning breathed upon thy form,
And Bethlehem's dews made coolness round thy rest!
O, by that love still faithful when the child
Put on the name and presence of the God,
And went forth bearing on his mighty heart
The crime, and death, and sorrow of a world!
Still true 'mid want, and wrong, and jeering scorn,
And hate's mad tempest beating on thy life,
To that dread hour when heaven was veiled in gloom,
And nature trembled and cried out in fear!
O, by thy human love divinely sweet,
Which yearned for her caress to comfort Thee
In the long exile from thy heavenly home, --
Which in the last hour lived upon thy lips
In words of tenderness, and from thine eyes
Struggled through mists of death in mute farewell!
O, by thy love, thy sorrow, and thy pain,
By all the tears Thou 'st shed for mortal woe,
Let the imploring passion of my soul
Come up before Thee at this midnight hour!
Break not "the bruised reed," Most Merciful!
Stay Thou the bleeding of the wounded heart!
Give back its dearest treasure even now!
Draw near, O Lord of Life, and gently take
The hand of our beloved in thine own,
And say to her, " Arise!"






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